


Danse Macabre

by missingmymothership



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Child POV, Dramatic Irony, Kidnapping, Little Spanish nuns!, M/M, Murder Husbands, Restaurant owner is unnerved and rightly so, Spanish granny has fun at the orchestra!, basically fluff, hawke uses zir favorite tropes, outsider pov
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-30
Updated: 2016-03-04
Packaged: 2018-04-18 00:26:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4685318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missingmymothership/pseuds/missingmymothership
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sylvia thought they made a lovely couple.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Danse Macabre

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PinkToby](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PinkToby/gifts).



> Find me in the wilds of Tumblr at lamby-grahamy!
> 
> Hope you enjoyed!
> 
> *edited slightly for wording and typos*
> 
> Guess who's adding more to this? Meee!
> 
> They're going to be little vignettes, posted as chapters in this work. I kept the title as the title, but each chapter will have a little title pertaining to the vignette. They're also not chronological, but they occur in the same universe.

The sky was a dark, simmering black when the pair arrived at the park. Sylvia noticed them immediately, two immaculately dressed men with sharp-edged stars in their eyes. All the seats at the concert were full, which they didn't seem to be one bit upset about. Perhaps they didn't notice yet. They seemed quite distracted by one another.

One of them was fair and had a cultivated posture, a look like he knew exactly how he appeared to the public and wished nothing more than for gazes to glance off of him like he was a slick mirror. He wore a suit of deep burgundy with a waistcoat and tie of a muted blue-green.

The other was dark and wiry, and while logically she knew they were the same size, he looked smaller. Sweeter but just as sharp. He was dressed in a dark grey, to suit his classical complexion; the man was the grounding force to the peacock next to him.

The orchestra was still warming up and she saw them speaking quietly to one another, looking at the arrangement of the seats and realizing their predicament. The fair one smiled, and said something, and they took a secluded place under a tree. 

Sylvia turned back around in her seat just as the orchestra began to play, first through a simple piece: Le Cygne. She grinned--the cellist was a master at her work, and Le Cygne was one of her favorites. She closed her eyes and sighed deeply.

Le Cygne faded out into Bach--once again, nothing too complicated, but that was fine by her. Bach flowed into Eugen Doga's My Sweet and Tender Beast, and she perked up, the piece ringing through the night air. Sylvia glanced behind her again, and the couple was leaned against their tree, swaying gently, watching the crowd just as much as they were watching the orchestra.

The song ended. Twelve Ds on a harp--she didn't quite recognize the piece until the tritone. The Danse Macabre.

The fair man locked eyes with the dark one, and they moved into a dance. The man in grey obviously hadn't had much experience dancing, especially in the swift and complicated waltz the other led him in, but he proved a passable dancer as they sped up.

Even while they waltzed, they kept close to their tree, and they moved through the shadows like they were a part of them. Like they were a part of each other. They spun, close to each other, then far apart, then close again. At the swelling crescendo, they halted and swayed together, then abruptly moved into their positions again, swirling through the dark grass.

As the piece faded into a delicate piano, the dark man leaned over and left a light kiss on the other's cheek, whispered something in his ear.

 

*

 

The night closed with Moonlight Sonata. Sylvia stayed in her chair as people left--she thought she'd love to give a rose to each orchestra member, and she brought a bouquet for the occasion, but she wasn't entirely certain she was allowed. She turned one last look at the tree, where the men still stood, and got up to give her gifts.

She counted out her dozens of roses, and found she had a single rose left; she knew who she would give it to. The men were quietly talking, and, as she approached, they stopped. 

"Good evening," the fair man said in slightly accented but technically perfect Spanish. Of course, it was hard to get "good evening" wrong. "How may we help you?"

Something in the undertones of his voice made her want to shiver, and apparently the other man caught it too, and sent him a subtly-raised eyebrow. "You seem like a happy couple. I wanted to give you a rose. It's from my garden." She held it out.

A whispered translation into the dark man's ear, and he broke out into a broad grin. The fair man spoke again. "Thank you for the rose. I wish there were some way I could repay your gift."

"Not necessary. Like I said, they're from my garden."

"And thus from your heart."

Sylvia very nearly blushed. "You're very kind. Have a good night."

"You as well. I wish you much happiness."

And she walked away.

 

As she found out an hour later, she was one of the few people who had survived an encounter with the infamous Dr. Hannibal Lecter and his partner, a former FBI consultant named William Graham. Her son was with the Interpol; apparently he'd gotten his tip too late and just missed them. Sylvia nearly fainted right then and there.

That was it. No more orchestra--her grandchildren's squeaky violins would suffice for her. 

And no more talking to strangers. Like her mother used to say, they might gobble her up when nobody was looking.

 

...Sylvia still thought they made a lovely couple.


	2. In the Basque Country

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will and Hannibal go out for dinner. Unfortunately, they're not too happy with one another.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope y'all continue to enjoy this! I'm completely overwhelmed by the response I've gotten--thank you from the bottom of my twisted, bloody origami heart.
> 
> Again, find me on tumblr at lamby-grahamy.
> 
> Thank you to BlueWonder, who made sure that I was correct with my Basque...everything. <3
> 
> Tell me what you think?

At eleven, Aureliano was just getting ready to close the cafe when the couple arrived, stepping in on the heels of dusk. They were murmuring quietly to each other in English, and Aureliano braced himself for the general obnoxiousness of tourists who didn't speak the language. But, to his surprise, one of them, a man with wheat-colored hair and hard eyes, spoke to him directly. In Spanish. "Good evening. Are you close to closing, or can you spare us a table?"

He blinked, and without meaning to, said, "Of course." He set his broom aside. "Sit wherever you like." The two looked American and were dressed nicely enough; perhaps they'd tip nicely too. It had been a long day. Too many people, not enough money to be worth it.

He watched the couple sit down--the man who spoke Spanish with his shoulders back, while the other man, whose face was badly scarred, rounded his shoulders ever so slightly. One tends to feel threatened slightly in a country where the language is unfamiliar, so it was understandable.

Aureliano left their menus, a basket of bread, and a pitcher of water on the table they'd chosen, the one near the exit, and went to the kitchen in the back of the restaurant to count up the money he'd earned today. There still wasn't enough for him to hire help and still pay his bills he knew, but it was nice at the end of each week to hope.

He sighed and removed the euros from his register, careful to keep an eye on the two Americans, in case they needed anything else before they'd finished deciding. He hoped they'd be a while. It was nice to be off his feet.

As he studied them, the two men looked slightly familiar to him, as if he'd seen their faces somewhere and forgotten. Maybe they were traveling for a food magazine he read.

They were speaking again--given that they were the only two left in the cafe, it was easy to hear them. His sister knew a bit of English. Aureliano wished she was here to translate, as they were obviously holding an intense conversation. No yelling, though. They didn't seem the types to yell.

"Will," the man with the wheat-colored hair began, but a look from the man who was probably Will silenced him. That name and that face...something about him was so familiar and Aureliano couldn't figure out what. 

Aureliano decided that he was not going to interrupt. Not that he was enjoying the drama, but he certainly wasn't complaining about it, and they hadn't even picked up their menus yet. There was nothing for him to do but watch--his money could wait.

The man attempted to pour water for Will, who snatched the pitcher and did so himself, then set it down without offering to pour for his companion. Well. He distinctly caught a muttered "rude." 

Will narrowed his eyes and picked up a menu, shielding his face from the other man's.

They debated about food for a moment, then the light-haired man turned in his chair, caught Aureliano's eye. He stood and hurried to their table. "What can I get for you?"

Will spoke first. "The trout, please." It was obvious he was still learning the language, but his accent was spectacular. "With...a local white wine? Your pick?"

Aureliano nodded once, then looked at the other man. 

"Do you still have lamb chops today?"

"With the French fries and peppers?"

"Yes."

"You're all right with the peppers raw?" Normally he wouldn't have asked, but the man wasn't from here. From his accent, he was maybe from a Slavic country.

"Very much so. Thank you." He seemed to think for a moment. "And if you have a local red wine, I would love to taste it."

He nodded again, and took their menus, and brought them their wine. 

While he was behind the grill, he could hear nothing but the sizzle of the lamb and the beautiful sound of trout in butter. He carefully sliced up peppers and potatoes and put the potatoes in the fryer. A lovely smell rose from the meat and he turned it, took the fish off the heat and slid it gently onto a plate.

Glancing up at the two that sat in his cafe, he observed that they were now in some kind of stiff silence, interrupted occasionally by the styrofoam sound of bread being pulled apart. Again, Aureliano wondered what they were arguing about and why they'd decided to go to dinner regardless of their spat. He could feel their frustration with one another rolling off them in big, dark waves, and it made his bright little cafe seem just that much less bright.

The man with the wheat-colored hair was the first to pick up his wine, and he held his glass by the stem. He took a deep breath of the scent, and a smile tinged the corners of his lips. 

Aureliano brought out their food soon after, and they thanked him again. 

They began eating immediately after he retreated to the kitchen, Will expertly de-boning his trout with the knife he was given and his companion delicately cutting his lamb and eating it with a bite of pepper. While Aureliano could only see Will's scarred face, the man with the wheat-colored hair's posture changed while he ate. It looked like a happy posture.

A small twitch at the corner of Will's broken lips, and while his companion took a sip of wine, he stole a fry from the edge of his plate. He wished he could see the other man's face right about now. They spoke rapidly back and forth, like speech was a tennis match, and Will leaned back in his seat, laughter on his face.

They ate in a much more companionable silence, every so often stopping for conversation. It seemed like they were reminiscing. Will took a sip of his wine, said something, and this time it was his companion who laughed. Will stole another fry off his plate.

Aureliano smiled and shuffled his euros. Their tension had seemed dangerous, and he was glad it was gone.

 

When they'd sat with their clean plates for five minutes or so, he walked out to clear the table. "Any dessert tonight?"

"If it isn't too late for you, it sounds very nice," Will's companion answered, then turned to Will. He said something to him in English, and he nodded. "What do you suggest?" he asked Aureliano.

"If you want cheese, you're in the right part of Spain. If you'd like some with a dab of jam, that's what I'd suggest."

The man again translated to Will, who smiled.

"And," Aureliano continued, "if you have time, my mother gave me her recipe for Basque Gateau."

"Maybe another time."

"If you're sure. The cheese will only be a moment." And he turned around and left them to grab the cheese from the refrigerator.

He brought it out with a dab of quince jam on top and left them to their babble, as it looked like they were getting tense again.

 

*

 

Hannibal cut a slice of the cheese, careful to keep the jam in place on top, and served it to Will, who had a rather pinched expression on his face. 

"Why do you have to kill him?"

He tilted his head and cut himself a piece. "I have a new recipe I want to try."

"You're getting twitchy, aren't you?" Will took a small bite of cheese, and swallowed before speaking again. "You just murdered someone yesterday, which was a) in bad taste, and b) a very poor example of your impulse control. You don't have to try out a recipe on our waiter."

Hannibal raised a thin eyebrow. "I never said I had any sort of impulse control."

"Still, it stands that it would be bad form to kill him after he made us a frankly spectacular meal."

Hannibal hadn't thought it could be called spectacular, but he made himself take a sip of his slowly warming wine before speaking again. "Your opinion doesn't give you final say on what happens, you realize."

"We do this together, or not at all."'

"Then," he lowered his voice, "I extend a cordial invitation to you, Will Graham, to help me prepare tomorrow's dinner."

Will took another bite of his cheese before answering.

 

*

 

The two men looked, from Aureliano's perspective, like they had decided something. He hoped it was to leave--he was getting tired, too tired to continue waiting on quarreling tourists. Will caught his gaze and called him over--he set down his half-counted bills, wrote down the sum so far, and took their bill from its place on the counter.

He delivered it to their table, and the man with the wheat-colored hair took a good quality wallet out of his pocket. He wondered, idly, if the man would use a credit card or pay in cash. He chose the latter, leaving a generous tip, the sum of which he must have worked out in his head. 

Aureliano took the money back to the kitchen and thought that maybe, they might leave soon. Even his shoulders were beginning to ache. He was beginning to regret letting them in.

Abruptly the two stood up.

"Thank you so much," the man called to Aureliano, but something behind his eyes made him seem rather unhappy.

As the two walked out the door, Aureliano could've sworn he heard a "Thank you, Hannibal" escape Will's lips. He sat down on his little stool and sighed. It was good to be off his feet.

Wait. Something was nagging at him. He wasn't sure what, but he was sure that it was niggling in the back of his brain like a leech.

They had looked familiar, and their names had rung a warning bell in his head. He ran a hand through his hair and drummed his fingers on the counter. This seemed important. Who were they? Will was a common name, and Hannibal--

The only man he knew as Hannibal was Hannibal Lecter, the crazy serial killer wanted worldwide, who was traveling with a man named William Graham.

But no. That was impossible. 

 

And even if it were possible, he didn't want to find out.


	3. Reacquaintance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **spoilers for 3x13!!! If you haven't seen the finale, DO NOT READ**
> 
> Will reacqaints himself with the reason he's been wary of therapy for years. Well. The reason that's not Hannibal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for your comments and kudos (especially the comments!!). I hope you know how much I appreciate them--each one makes my day that much brighter.

Will Graham sat with his toes tapping on the linoleum waiting room floor. Daniel would've recognized him anywhere.

But...wasn't Will supposed to be dead?

He'd nearly cried when he heard the news about his former patient, going over that cliff after taking out both The Red Dragon and Hannibal the Cannibal. But. There he was, face badly scarred up and eyes framed by glasses, a relaxed set to his shoulders, and an absence of dog hair on his immaculately tailored suit. But still him. Still Will.

Daniel opened his office door. "Will," he rasped.

A smile spread over his face. "Danny. Nice to see you again." 

He hadn't seen Will this calm, well, ever. "Nice to see you too. I thought you were--"

"No. Almost, but no."

"But everyone thinks--"

"It's better that way. May I come in?"

Daniel should have answered differently. "Yes. Definitely."

Will stood and followed him into his office, and seated himself on the couch opposite Daniel's chair. Something dark came with him. "How have you been?"

"I've been fine." He picked at the skin on his knuckle. "What about you? How did you survive that fall?"

A twitch of his lips. "Luck." 

An uncomfortable silence spread through the room. 

"I'm not interrupting you, am I? No patients today?"

"Just one. And she's already had her appointment."

"Good." 

They sat in silence yet again, and Daniel felt something predatory ease its way onto his chair.

"You still giving therapy the same way you used to?"

His mouth went dry. "I don't see why I need or needed to change the way I help my patients."

"You wouldn't," Will muttered. "But that's you, I suppose."

"I don't know what you mean."

"Doesn't the saying go 'first, do no harm?' I think you failed with that." A small, bitter twist of the lips, and Daniel swore he felt that predatory thing's hot breath on the back of his neck. "But," Will said, "You didn't permanently damage me, so I suppose that's good."

"Did you come all the way here from wherever you were hiding just to confront me about the techniques I used in your therapy? At least I didn't do to you what Hannibal Lecter did." Daniel could almost hear the sound of a nerve being struck.

"A good point. But Hannibal apologized, and in the end, less damage was done to me by him than by you."

Daniel blinked. "I...I don't know what to say to that."

"Good. I'm not interested in keeping up a banter with you."

"Then why--"

"We both thought the look on your face when you saw me would be delicious."  
...both? The predatory thing in the room with them grinned behind him, and he felt a buzzing on the back of his neck. 

Will rose from the couch, suddenly almost merged with the shadow, and opened the door to the office. "I'm ready," he called out into the waiting room. 

"Will," Daniel started, "Will, what's going on?" 

"Did you get an apology from him?" a smooth, accented voice asked from just somewhere outside the door. Oh no.

"No, I didn't."

A sleek, red-eyed man in a plastic suit cover strode through the doorway like it was a Saturday in the park. "Hello, Dr. Fitzpatrick." 

He blinked once, twice, frozen in place. "Will?"

"You stole the words right from my mouth," the man said, then turned to Will. "My dear Will, what are your plans for this one?" 

His face was expressionless as he said, "I'd like to have some fun with him. But. Afterwards."

"After what?" he asked, but it was becoming more clear by the second.

"Allow me to introduce myself, Dr. Fitzpatrick," the man said. No no no. He did not want to know. "Dr. Hannibal Lecter. I can't say I'm pleased to make your acquaintance."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thank you to my lovely beta and fantastic friend, BlueWonder! Go check out her fics. They're magnificent. :)
> 
> As always, find me on tumblr as lamby-grahamy. Hope y'all enjoyed.


	4. Conspiracy pt 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A very short vignette about a very short nun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is so short--hopefully the next one will be a bit longer. And who knows, I might continue this particular story at some point!
> 
> Thanks again for all of your feedback, guys. I'm just overjoyed that this story makes people as happy as it makes me!

The two pilgrims were hard to miss, even though they wore plain hiking clothes and sturdy shoes like everyone else that came to the hostel. Fatima noticed them immediately, and though really she would rather be working on her embroidery, the men held her attention. They walked into the hostel and disappeared behind its doors--Fatima stayed in the yard. It was too nice a day to waste inside.

Apparently the pilgrims thought so too, because not a quarter of an hour later they were strolling around in the yard, speaking quietly to one another in a mix of English and French. The first man, the one with more grace to him, spoke very proper French, and the other, dark-haired one spoke something that sounded to her to be a bastardized version of the language. She found it quite charming.

Fatima nibbled her lip and started her needle into the outline of a diving bird. She decided a simple seed stitch would do for its feathers--she wanted for it to look like it was disintegrating in its spiral and seed stitch would give her the freedom to pursue that path. She wondered whether she should use satin stitch to fill it in, and smoothed out the fabric with her calloused brown hands. The sun felt nice on her face, felt like it was warming everything in her, even her bones. Fatima looked up at the sky, feeling an overflow of gratitude in her chest. God had indeed made a good world.

She glanced again at the men and saw that the graceful one was not so graceful anymore. He looked like he was in pain, and he had begun to limp. She anchored her needle in her fabric, adjusted her navy blue sweater, and stood, saying in practiced English, "Can I help you?" 

"No, thank you," said the graceful one. His voice was not at all affected by the pain it looked like he was in. "Just old wounds acting up."

Still, Fatima stayed standing until the two had made their way inside again. She hoped they could make it up the stairs okay.

She saw the dark haired man at dinner that night without his companion. His face was carefully relaxed, and he smiled at all the right intervals. Fatima knew all was not well. Sister Jimena, who was sitting next to her for a change, leaned over and whispered something in her ear that she couldn't quite catch. 

"Jimena, I'm going deaf in that ear. You're going to have to speak up."

Jimena leaned over again. "I said, that hiker over there seems worried about something."

Fatima nodded. "I agree. His friend isn't at dinner--seems that he's not feeling well."

"What can we do for him?"

She smiled. "Probably quite a bit."


	5. Vichyssoise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's been so long, guys! Once again, I am absolutely *flabbergasted* by the response I've gotten to this! Thank you so much for everything!

It was a sunny day, and Jade was happy. There were pigeons flying everywhere, which made her giggle and made her mom annoyed, and the way her face pinched up made Jade laugh even more. Elias was asleep in his stroller, his baby face much more peaceful than when he cried. She turned away from her cocoa to watch a stray pigeon, and as her gaze drifted down, a man with a big scar on his face caught her eye. He was sitting across from another man in a suit the color of the ocean across the street, and she could only see his back. She wondered how the man with the scar had gotten his scar. Maybe a bear? Probably a dragon, though. Mommy told her dragons weren't real but she was sure they existed, and right there was proof!

The man with the scar had a red sweater on, one that looked a little too big for him, like when Jade put on her cousin's hand-me-downs. 

"What you looking at, honey?" Mommy asked.

"That man over there has a pretty suit!" She pointed.

"It's very pretty, but it's not polite to stare, baby." 

Her shoulders slumped, but she turned around and took a drink of cocoa. Jade swung her heels against the chair legs, making a little whump whump every time they hit the wood. She wasn't sure why staring wasn't nice, but she thought that Mommy knew better than her. Mommy was really good at talking to people.

Talking behind her. She wished she could move her ears around like the kitty living by their hotel, because then she heard quiet laughter and the men must be talking about something funny if they were laughing. When she was sure Mommy wasn't looking, Jade peered around the back of the chair. The man with the big scar was taking food off the other one's plate. She couldn't tell from the back, but it looked like the man in the suit was pinching the bridge of his nose like Mommy did when she was stressed.

"You're never going to stop doing that, are you?" he said, or at least Jade thought he said. She couldn't make it out over the scar man's laughter. It was loud and slightly wheezy, like when she was chasing her friends during recess and couldn't stop laughing while she ran.

"Jade," came Mommy's sharp voice. "Staring's really not polite, remember?"

She turned around again. "Sorry."

"It's fine. Just don't keep doing it." Mommy sighed, a tired smile taking over her face and making her eyes crinkle up at the sides. "Drink your cocoa, boo. It's probably getting cold." 

The waiter came up to their table with their food while Mommy was talking. They had decided on soup for the both of them, some kind that Jade couldn't remember the name of, but knew it sounded like "fishy swat." Mommy had assured her it tasted nothing like fish.

Jade cautiously dipped bread in the creamy soup and took a bite. It was cold. "Mommy," she said, her mouth still full, "Mommy, it's cold!"

"Uh huh. It's supposed to be cold."

She took another bite of the bread. "I don't know if I like it."

"We can always take it back to the hotel. There's a fridge in our room, remember?" Mommy ate a spoonful of soup. "Although it'd be nice if you took a couple more sips, just in case you do end up liking it."

Jade nodded but didn't pick up her spoon just yet.

She looked up at the sky and tried to make pictures out of the clouds, but they were too thin and wispy to make her think of anything but clouds. Instead, she looked at the ocean across the street, but even though the ocean was really cool and full of sharks and sea snakes and ribbon worms and stuff, she lost interest after a while. Jade took another sip of soup, because Mommy had asked her to and someone had made it. It tasted kind of like the potatoes Gramma made special for Christmas.

She could maybe eat some more. It wasn't so bad. 

"What do you think now?" Mommy asked.

"I think I like it." 

"Good for you. Thanks for trying something new, boo." Elias started to squirm in his stroller, like he was gonna wake up soon. Maybe he was already awake. She couldn't tell. Mommy looked at him once and then looked at Jade. "I'll be right back. I think he needs a diaper change. Anything happens, you know what to do."

"Yep." If anybody tried to take her she would scream, and if she couldn't scream she would bite them until she could. 

"Okay, love you. Be right back." Mommy stood and pushed Elias' stroller inside. Jade watched her until she was down the restaurant's bathroom hallway, and then ate some more soup. It was exciting to be left alone at the table.

She heard more talking at the table behind her, and since Mommy wasn't here to tell her not to stare, she turned around and made herself as small as she could so nobody would notice her there. 

"So," said the man with the scar, "where to next?"

"Do you want to go walking on the beach? It's been a while since I've felt warm sand on my feet."

"It has, hasn't it?"

The man in the suit leaned back against his chair. "Much too long."

The scarred man rubbed a hand over his face, like he was tired. His gaze drifted down, and then his eyes met hers. Jade felt panic well up in her chest and warm her face; she scooted back and ended up falling off her chair.

A soft chuckle and a couple of whispers, and then a calloused, brown hand was offering her help up. She took it. The man with the scar pulled her up, his face one big smile, and he sat back down at his table. He wasn't so far away.

"It's okay to look," he said. "Were you curious about my scar?"

She shrugged, and felt her face get even hotter. 

"It's okay if you were. You wanna know how I got it?"

Jade _was_ curious. She nodded, eyes on the ground.

"I got it from a dragon."

She wanted to tell him she already knew, but then Mommy was coming back. 

The two men got up, paid, and left not long after that, and when Mommy asked for the bill she was told it had already been paid.

Jade felt warm and happy all day, and hoped to meet the men again. 

She didn't.


	6. Andrew and the Terrible, Horrible, No-Good, Very Bad Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Poor Andrew.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am going to warn y'all right now: this story involves hostage-taking, canon-typical violence (which I have glossed over), and a lot of swearing. If that's not your thing, I'll probably have something for you out soon.
> 
> Now that that's over. Thank you all *so much* for sticking with Danse while I've been busy. Things are just getting even more busy, so I really hope I can keep updating--it's always a pleasure to write these vignettes. Much love. <3

Andrew should have known not to get on the goddamn bus. His day had been shitty enough without his only way home being fucking hijacked. These four guys, in _balaclavas_ , for fuck's sake, boarded the bus, sat for a while and started shouting; one held a gun to the driver's head. Andrew really should've put extra food in his cat's dish this morning--he wasn't coming home to feed her dinner.

The bus took a detour, and the seven other people on it were absolutely silent. Andrew was quiet too. Distantly, he thought he should be scared, but he was too angry to worry.

A man sitting near the back, judging from where the sound of his voice was coming from, asked in a clear, steady voice, "Why exactly are you kidnapping all of us?"

Andrew turned, as slowly as he could, to see this idiot. Again, a small part of him said he didn't want to see someone get their head blown off, but he was curious.

Dark hair, scars, small frame, abso-fucking-lutely blank face, even with the barrel of a gun pressed against his temple hard enough to bruise.

"You don't need to know," the guy guarding the back growled.

Not even a twitch. "It might make this go quicker if somebody could get you what you want."

"I will paint this bus with your brains, see if I don't."

"Go ahead. My fiancé won't be happy, though."

"Something makes me think I don't fucking care."

Andrew turned around at that point. That idiot was gonna get himself murdered, and he was not gonna watch that shit. 

"Tony," called the man guarding the passengers in the middle of the bus, "give it a fucking rest, will you? We need something to negotiate with."

"There're seven other hostages on this damn bus. He's mouthy."

"Tony, get your finger off the trigger and do your fucking job."

Andrew sunk low in his seat, and was thrown to the side as the bus made a sharp left turn. He peered out the window; they were hurtling towards a warehouse. So cliché. He couldn't even get kidnapped by people with _originality_. 

The bus stopped short, and they were all ushered off the bus. The four men pushed them into the warehouse and began to duct tape each passenger's wrists together: the dark-haired man was first, then the mother and her toddler who'd sat in front of him, a businessman, Andrew, the driver, and two teenagers. One of the two, a girl, tried to make a break for it; as cliché as these idiots were, they were damn good shots.

Instead of eight live hostages, there were now seven.

Andrew felt his heart start to race and adrenaline gather at his pulse points. Fuck. This was really happening.

To calm down, he took deep breaths and looked around. One guy at the exit, one at the entrance. Pigeons roosted in the ceiling. There were only two men near him, Tony and the guy who'd kept the bus driver in line; maybe he could--

"Gentlemen," said the dark-haired man. _Was he fucking trying to get himself killed?_ "I think you've made a mistake. Nobody's going to negotiate with you now."

"Fucking shut up!" Tony yelled, whirling to face the man. The veins in his otherwise plain face stood out. 

"Tony," said the guy who'd talked him down from shooting on the bus. He musta been the leader or some shit, because Tony stopped short. "Tony, we're gonna make some ransom money and then we're gonna get out of here, okay? Take your finger off the trigger."

"Thank you, Tony," said the dark-haired man, not mocking in the slightest. He was only a few feet away. If the man got shot, he would get blood all over Andrew, his new shirt, the shirt he'd bought because _shit, life is short_ and oh god he wanted to laugh--

The man continued. "I used to do negotiations."

Tony moved again, but the head honcho thrust out an arm, stopping him. "Listen. He might not be bullshitting."

"I worked for the FBI for a while." His voice was taking on a silky, calm tone. Like a therapist. "We did a lot of negotiation. I can help you handle it, if you want." 

Honcho narrowed his eyes. "And I can trust you why?"

"I _used_ to work for the FBI. Now, though, I have no incentive to let the police bring me in alive."

What? 

Honcho echoed Andrew's thoughts. "What?"

"I'll help you negotiate if you let us all go a little quicker than normal. Get your men away from the exits--they're too exposed."

Honcho swallowed once, then barked, "Mike, Harris, come here!"

Andrew saw Tony's eyes widen. "Boss, what the fuck are you doing?"

"I'm not turning down free help."

The man spoke again. "This is your first pony show, then?"

"You don't get to ask questions."

"Get me a phone."

Honcho stood for a moment, then turned. "Harris, give him your phone."

The dark-haired man accepted the phone. He hadn't had it for more than a second when suddenly the sound of sirens wailing interrupted them all.

Thank fuck.

Except not, because that was when Tony started yelling. "You little bastard, you _did_ something--"

"Tony," Honcho said, "calm the fuck down! He couldn't have done anything!"

"He's a fucking cop, he's wearing a wire, I don't fucking care!" Tony smashed the butt of his pistol across the man's forehead. His head snapped back and he fell backwards with a choked-off cry.

Holy shit, he was insane.

"I'm not paying you to damage the hostages!" Honcho yelled, and the sirens grew louder. He grabbed Tony's arms and yanked him backwards.

Andrew craned his neck to see the man fiddling with the phone while the other two were distracted. He looked dazed but like he was...texting someone? Fuck, was he trying to save them? Hopefully it would save Andrew, and the teenager he could hear sobbing behind him. The mother who was cradling the baby. The businessman was out cold, though, probably from panic.

It was the guy named Mike who caught the dark-haired man texting. He ripped the phone out of the man's grasp and kicked him in the stomach.

"Boss," he said, his voice cutting through the noise. "boss, he texted someone."

The man grinned from his position on the warehouse floor.

"Gimme the phone," Honcho said.

Andrew squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for an execution.

The sound of police cruisers pulling up on the gravel around the warehouse had never been sweeter.

"Who the fuck is Hannibal?"

"My fiancé. The unhappy one," the man said. Andrew could hear the smile in his voice.

Footsteps from outside the warehouse--snipers? Negotiators? Andrew waited for the sound of a loudspeaker, of conditions of surrender, of hostage release.

"He replied. Says, _I'm already two steps ahead of you, my dear Will._ "

The dark-haired man--Will--laughed. "Of course he is."

Andrew opened one eye. No loudspeaker--in fact, all the outside noise had stopped.

"I'm not fucking afraid of a guy named Hannibal," Honcho said.

"I didn't tell you his full name, did I? My fiancé's name is Hannibal Lecter."

It seemed that even in rude company, there was a pause that followed the name.

Then it clicked for Andrew. _Oh fucking hell._ Oh no. Oh god no.

"Hannibal the Cannibal?"

"The very same," Will said, too chipper all of a sudden. 

"He died a year ago. Fell off a fucking cliff with. With an FBI agent."

"The very same."

The color drained from the kidnappers' faces simultaneously.

"Hello gentlemen," said a voice from a hidden corner of the warehouse. It was accented, dark and rich, silky and measured like a psychiatrist's.

Andrew bit his tongue to keep from pissing himself.

"You've really outdone yourself, Will. Always so clever," he said, still hidden.

A man in an immaculate suit stepped from behind the crates, his eyes a cold garnet red, on his face a shark's smile. 

"You were cleverer than I, this time."

"I have to keep my dignity somehow," Hannibal Lecter said, a fucking affectionate look on his face.

Will was forgotten, the four kidnappers hurtling towards exits they found barricaded. Pounding the doors, screaming.

"I have your blessing?"

"Of course."

Will had this serial killer on a _leash._

Lecter moved faster than Andrew thought a person could move.

He looked away.

*

Well, it was a fucking good story to tell later on. The two crazy men, walking off into the distance, hands slick with blood.

Not even the police were willing to stop them.

Andrew was fine with that. He'd seen enough corpses for the day.


End file.
